Rarely was it your fault. It was the bad weather, poor judgement and pressing performance schedules.
Otis Redding flying into Madison. Had you been able to speak, through whatever mechanism possible, you may have said, “You sure about this? Because that’s a small northern town surrounded by a lot of freezing water and I know you want to make that gig and they will love you there, but maybe you want to call that one off. The fans will survive. They’ll still buy your records.”
Redding had just recorded “Dock of the Bay.” “Wasting time…”
You wish they would call them weather crashes and not plane crashes. Place the blame where it belongs. Stevie Ray, Buddy Holly, Ritchie Valens, Big Bopper, Patsy Cline. These are not your fault. You can’t stop people when they insist. The fog is dense. The wind is mad. You know where this is headed.
If it’s not the weather, it’s pilot error. John Denver hits the wrong switch, thinking he’s fueling up, but he’s not. Jim Croce’s pilot manages to clip your wing on a pecan tree in Louisiana on take off. Aaliyah's pilot is drunk and high; you can feel it as he fumbles with the controls. You’re helpless.
Your engines rarely fail. Your mechanics are sound. Sure, you’re small, lightweight, but in skilled, sober hands you’re a pleasure, a marvel, a well-earned luxury after years of hard work, playing in bars and then packing up all that equipment at 4 AM, writing hundreds of songs, playing thousands of hours. Maybe they dreamed about the day when they would have their own plane. You’re the good life.
But you can only do so much. If the snow swirls or the rain batters your wings, you have to go. Engines on. Lift. They’re praying they make it. You know, even now, prayers aren’t enough to overcome this bad judgement.
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